How Doth

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcome little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!

Banana Bread, is the Best Thing in the World.

Wednesday Night at the V.S.

I passed out on my couch almost immediately upon arriving at my house yesterday afternoon. I slept solidly for an hour before calling work to see if they were going to need me for my on-call shift. Despite my crossing of my arms, legs, and fingers, in hopes of freedom, they decided that they wanted me and i was forced to abandon my noble attempt at sleep.

I went in a few minutes early so I could go pick up my Mel Torme cd from the old stomping grounds across the hall. Jo got married to some military fellow. Mike's hair grew out again. I forced, yes, FORCED, him to give me a hug. Sadly, he's one of those that tends to give spaghetti arms hugs anyway. I think I really would like to go back there for christmas. They balance out my work habits. V.S. is all about manual labor, running, "skipping," and stressing over the details. FYE is about sales pitching, standing around, and talking about movies that people can't remember the title of. Doing both keeps me from collapsing.

There's a whole new crew at Victoria's Secret. They all seem well enough, but it seems like they always hire skeezey (sp?) people for sales support. They're the people you're ashamed to be seen in public with. Meanwhile, all the sales girls are pleasant, attractive, and considerable less skeezey. I flirted with switching to sales at V.S., but I'm not sure how good I am at selling things to women, or how i feel about pressuring people into getting more credit cards in the middle of an economic dip. On to the reason why I decided to write this... Last night, we were told that we would not be allowed to leave until the store was 100%, no matter how long we had been there, or what our schedule was intended to be. A few people had been there since 2pm.

I "projection layered" one of the back launch pads so it would looks christmas-y, arranged "Long Jane's" on their gifting table, made mock boxes for the understock, arranged Flannel Jim-Jams on their gifting tables, made mock boxes for their understock, and then, Kristen decided that there was something about me, that said "Wow, I'm really good at tying ribbons, and would like nothing more than to tie a zillion ribbons right at this very moment." She had tied five or so and sent me over to finish the table. I suppose being artsy means that you can do any and everything to do with presentation? Anyway, I walked over and immediately wished I had taken a crash course in ribbon tying with grandma. She's super good at it. After trial and error, the best way to tie ribbons is the "Bunny Ear Method" that you learn in pre-school before you learn the "Grown Up" way. If you tie ribbons the grown up way, they tend to tilt sideway, which will not do. Once I was done with the front table, while heading back, Schareka stopped me and asked me to tie bows for the beauty room. Four bows later, i was moved on to trash duty because Kristen knows that I don't "Dilly dally." Halfway into this job, Schareka walks over and has me tie one additional ribbon. >.<

This was followed by a trash run, recovering panties in core, recovering all of intimissimi, lounge, and then recovering the pink room, folding and hanging hoodies. We got out promptly at 1am. I drove home and watched a Woodstock documentary with my dad.

Proclaimation:

That recliner on Ashley's porch should have my name carved into it's fluffy chair-like flesh.

The New Mr. Renfield

Gnomes

Johnny D'Elia

We drove to Tampa to visit my grandfather today. It's been ten years since I've been down there. For some reason, my squeaker died. I didn't really say anything unless I was asked a question. "I've never seen you so Mousy." -dad. I guess that's how I handled the awkwardness. Meanwhile, Andrew doesn't handle nervous tension well, and blabbered for the whole four hours we were in the house.



He's going to either die of a blood clot or his blood chemistry is going to get so out of whack that his heart will stop.

Just drew this. Don't know why she's scary skinny.

Truth

I'm really bad at being sorry.

Vulcans

It seem like everyday...or at least for the past two. I listen to people, with the giggles and the squeals, people taking things much too personally, and I'm bored. I can feel my ears tingling, like the upper cartilage is just itching to spike up to an elongated point. Primitive emotions irritate me. Meanwhile, as I am a horrendously passionate person, I really can't be a Vulcan. And there goes my dreams of being analytical and bitchy for forever.

However, I do get to involve Vulcans in my immediate design future. I was going to do something involving Prince, and the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain. But, when i got down to doing my "five propositional sketches," all i could draw was Spock. Luckily, Sean liked my ideas. So, I will soon be making a poster for a Logic Development Conference, probably featuring some pointy ears and perhaps a Vulcan hand signal or two.

Quote 1

"I draw a monster, everyday." -Patrick Moser

Today's was a llama creature.
There was a creepy sheep monster from before, too.

New table doodle.

Did you know today was Wayne Thiebaud Day?

Seem like everywhere I went today, people were bringing up Mr. Thiebaud. He was already on the brain because I want the lid of my coffee cup to be raised from the painting ground like a frosted pie in a Thiebaud painting. At some point, Russel brought him up, and then in Figure Painting, Sarah mentioned the bright lines of color that he tends to put right on the contour edges of figures that make them appear to shift.



I couldn't really recall of Thiebaud painting with a figure in it, apart from that one of a man sitting from behind. So I ran the library and yanked a book. You can see it on her inner thighs in that piece. I like his figures but I think his faces tend to come out mask-like. There's not a lot of life in the faces. They're pieces of pie, the face is frosting.



Meanwhile...I love this one. Minimalist bathtub with a little cranium just poppin out to the left.

Just found this in my sketchbook.

Dragged to Ink-Sliggers

We had to write a poem using random words that a few kids, foaming at the mouth, shouted out. And this is what the frightened little art major did:

The Marine, wasted-
Onomatopoeia, onomatopoeia
He lain there,
Butterscotch dropping from the ceiling.
Drip Drip Drip, onomatopoeia
Piling and piling up, like stalagmites
Drip drip drop, piling.
At dawn he stirred, feet buried thickly in butterscotch.
The morning light cast the room in a purple glow
Blinking, stretching, onomatopoeia,
Realizing, sticking to the floor.
Crawling and groping in the dim light
His hand found a handle.
Weight in his shoulders, he pulled the squeegee blade through.
Scrape, scrape, glide, onomatopoeia
Grunting, heaving, with the will of a Rhinoceros,
Supercharging, forcing through as culture had told him
No use. shh-wipe. onomatopoeia
Futile, the life of a platypus,
Onomatopoeia




This is what i drew to go with it.


Words and I, have a secret, trying relationship.

Journal Entry, February 25th, 2007

"There's a balloon in my tree. After a short adventure in space, it lost it's drive and allowed gravity to tug it slowly back down to Earth. And here it is now, limply swaying with the breeze, flowing through the oak's barren branches. At one time this balloon must've been a thoughtful touch to some child's birthday party, metallic letters shimmering from the glow of candles and the grins of party-goers. I don't know how this balloon began it's skyward adventure. It may have been the accidental absence of a loving grasp, or the will of a spontaneous wind. In any case, the balloon's journey may not be as important as the start and finish of it's life.
I discovered it's presence one night. The moon was full and as I waged war upon it, i saw a glimmer of light from the tree above me. I saw a glimmer of light from the tree above me. At this point it still contained helium. As the wind rustled the branches, the silver oval would turn, allowing the moonlight to reflect off of it. It was a while before I realized what I was seeing. My focus on the mystery object got the moon off the hook for the night. Now, the balloon looks rather wimpy with it's form, twisting and strewn around the smaller branches, just beginning to burst with growth. It's still chilly. Those branches will be naked for a few more weeks, and until then, that balloon will have to suffer. It didn't pick a great spot for landing. Though, it may like it up there, watching the neighborhood's ins and outs.
I recall another balloon, much less fortunate. It was an electric blue, star-shaped balloon resting on the bumpy ceiling of the gym. Yes, it still had some life to it, but it was and would forever be trapped up there beyond anyone's reach. When I saw it then, I wondered if it was happy up there, staring down on the rowdy kids who didn't really give a damn. I stared and sighed with the balloon during my class, cold, with my legs bare. I went home, wondering if it would rather be plucked from the ceiling and thrown in the trash, of if an exit to the sky would be more pleasurable. Would a tired balloon want to call it quits after being forgotten for so long? Would it rather remain in limbo, floating between all eventful things? Or, would it want to try it's luck in the air, floating free, despite it's past abandonment and the late hour of said adventure?
I regret telling my friends of my concerns. They didn't get it. "It's a stupid balloon, Kat." But it wasn't. It was our past, present, and future, the chosen end to their lives. And they wouldn't listen to it. Later, one would regret ignoring my passionate advance for understanding, but it was too late for him. He lost me in more ways that he realized.
That blue balloon was gone one day. I don't know if it was plucked down, or if it gingerly fell as the helium depreciated. But I hope it was pleased with it's end, and glad that it didn't have to be so near happiness, that it could never experience up on the ceiling.
However, the balloon in my tree has led a full life. It has adventured and flown all that it can. Maybe I'll manage to climb up the upper branches and rescue it, one day. Who knows? Maybe this is different. This time, beings that this balloon is outside, and can still feel the sun's warmth and the rain, removal may not be much of a favor. We shall see what time brings. Until the decision is made, I will send greetings to the ballon and remember the past one, as I stand out in the dark, yelling at the moon."

"Without Hope, Without Fear."

Art History notes. This little old guy vaporized on top of the Baldacchino. All in all, it was a profitable study session.

Design Doodles